


Touch Me

by Meowser_Clancy



Series: Jimel Moments [9]
Category: Ghost Whisperer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 19:55:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7521037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meowser_Clancy/pseuds/Meowser_Clancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’d lost his ability to touch. And that seemed to be the hardest thing. Because food, he could live without; he could be dead without, more likely. That wasn’t what he missed. Tag to 4x7: Threshold. Jim doesn't want to cross over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ghostwhispererfangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostwhispererfangirl/gifts).



_For stern as death is love_

_Relentless as the netherworld is devotion_

_Its flames are a blazing fire_

_Deep waters cannot quench love_

_Nor floods sweep it away_

**Song of Songs**

** **

His life was there, bare before his eyes. He opened the door and there they were, dancing at their wedding.

Jim couldn’t even breathe for the pain when he saw himself, dressed in a tux, lean to kiss Melinda, radiant in her wedding dress.

No. No. This was too real.

The next door was worse. He had to watch her see him die again, and his heart shattered as hers did, as she tried to cling on.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to go first, and suddenly, like this. They were supposed to live until old age.

They were supposed to have kids together.

He would have punched the wall but his hand would have slid through it. His hand wouldn’t have touched it.

He’d lost his ability to touch.

And that seemed to be the hardest thing. Because food, he could live without; he could be dead without, more likely. That wasn’t what he missed.

Smells, and talking, who really cared about that? It hurt like hell that Melinda couldn’t hear him but he had hopes that she would. That once she got a little joy in her life she’d be able to see him, reach out to him. And then this tightness in his chest would ease a little, this anxiety. Once she could see him, he promised himself. Once he could say goodbye to her. Then death would be bearable.

Almost bearable.

Oh, god, it would never be bearable.

Because he couldn’t touch her.

He’d tried. His first moments in death, staring at her as she lay on his bed. Reaching to touch her. Smoothe away the tears once she’d started crying.

And his hand had slipped through her.

And over the past two days, Melinda was unable to see him. And he hadn’t been quite in control; he had been floating in and out of things from the time of his death to when he’d talked to Dan, so maybe he wasn’t appearing properly anyway, but that didn’t change the fact that she couldn’t see him.

Making touch that much more important.

He’d always used touch to comfort her. Pressed a kiss to her cheek when she got home. Slid a hand over her arm to remind her that he was there. Brushed his knuckles over her skin, feeling her for _his_ sake. Letting his lips follow his hands, finding her collar bone, kissing there, until she’d forgotten everything.

He. Had. Always. Touched. Her. Always been able to touch her, right from the moment they met, when he’d pushed her from the burning building, to their first date, wiping mustard from her lips.

He. Didn’t. Know. How. Not. To. Touch. Her.

He didn’t know how to handle it when his hand slipped through her. When he tried to kiss her and he couldn’t and she didn’t even notice he was there.

And he didn’t know how to handle it when he tried to pull her into his arms, _his strong arms, her one support, her best support,_ and he couldn’t.

* * *

 

His heart seemed to shatter anew on the porch, talking to her, insisting he was there, and she didn’t see him. When the ghost woke her during the night and it wasn’t him.

He started wondering how it was that ghosts visited her in dreams. He lay beside her on the bed, so close, and yet so far, just staring at her as she tried to sleep, tugging his pillow over and holding it on her chest, trying so hard to be brave, until tears were in her eyes and she just started sobbing.

She’d been remembering. God, he’d love to know what.

He concentrated. Surely he could take her there. Delve into her mind like other ghosts did, make her see him there. And then they could touch. You could touch in dreams.

He would touch her.

Hold her. Kiss her until their lips were sore, or at least they’d dream they were and that would be enough.

He almost made it, thought he did. He was near her and she’d just drifted off, her eyes fluttering closed. He placed his hand on her, tried to, flinching when it slid over her again, through her, and concentrated on making himself seen.

And she seemed to move in sleep, react, but then the feeling was just gone. And she didn’t wake up.

* * *

 

His funeral.

A better occasion than he’d expected. A small turnout but everyone there he could call friend and that was what mattered.

And Melinda. She he could call wife. Partner. Lover.

Oh god. He couldn’t let her go.

She’d always underestimated just how much he needed her. Always acted as though he’d been the one to rescue her, he was the one who gave, and she the one who took, his love, his generosity, his passion.

She always believed that he could have done better. That he could have picked a _better_ wife for himself. One who wasn’t slightly crazy. One who wasn’t weird.

One whose job wouldn’t interfere with his life so much.

But she’d always overlooked something, something he’d tried to tell her, again and again, to no avail...he needed her, too. Just as much, if not much, much, more, than she needed him.

She was his world. The center of his gravity. She’d filled a gaping hole in his heart left by Dan, by not being able to say goodbye to his father properly, and she’d filled it well. She’d overflowed it.

She had told him of a new world, one where peace and happiness were attainable. One where the dead could say goodbye.

She’d showed him everything, teaching him about love and the world, and just how much the human heart could stretch before it broke.

She had touched his life in ways that he couldn’t count. Just as he’d touched her life.

But this wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to have to count them off. Because he wasn’t supposed to be dead.

_He wasn’t supposed to be dead._

She hadn’t needed him any more than he’d needed her. And her heart wasn’t any more broken right now than his was.

So when she saw him, standing in the crowd, grinning as the people around him finally remembered that, yes, he liked to dance, he liked to laugh, liked to celebrate life because who could tell when it’d be over? So funerals were an occasion of…

Joy.

Melinda could see him.

And it was like his world changed all over again. He was in NYC, working a fire, finding the love of his life in the crowd, throwing her slipper at her. Tossed.

He’d tossed it at her.

Her face showed everything. It always had. She was working, trying to say something to him, trying to make it known how much it meant to her, but she didn’t have to.

He was by her side. He was by her side and they were dancing, and his mind shot to his dance with her at their wedding, and how vastly, crazily different that had been.

How he’d carried her up to the hotel room and they’d danced there too, but not standing up this time. How they’d discovered, all over again, how loving someone could make _making love_ to someone so much better. How when you loved someone and they loved you back, you barely even had to touch them to make them want you. Hell, you didn’t have to touch. You just had to look.

He couldn’t touch her right now and he couldn’t feel her arms around his neck.

But he could look and be looked at. And the way her eyes burned into his, and the way he could finally stare again, and be seen, almost made up for it.

* * *

He couldn’t touch her.

They were in their living room, sitting on the windowsill, whispering back and forth. There was a light in her eyes that he hadn’t seen in forever. She was so happy to see him again. He didn’t want to reach the inevitable moment when the fact that he was dead would come crashing back in again.

And then it did. She was telling him he had to cross over.

And that wasn’t fucking happening.

God, he wanted her so much right now. In a right world, he’d be able to scoop her up into his arms, carry her upstairs, make her scream his name, hold her so tight they both couldn’t breathe.

In a right world, he’d be able to touch her, hold her, caress her, let his hands move over every single inch of her skin.

In a right world...he wouldn’t be dead.

And she was crying, and he was about to also, but he didn’t want to talk now. He wanted to be with her.

And they were standing so close. He could feel her body heat. At least he could imagine he could feel it.

And her lips, their usual pouting beauty, were so close. And he _wanted_ her. All he could think about was loving her, making love _to_ her. Kissing every worry and doubt away.

But that required touch.

* * *

 

His side. His road. His journey.

Why didn’t she _get_ this yet?

She didn’t need him _more_  than he needed her. This wasn’t him being afraid to leave her alone. This was about _him_ being afraid to be alone. To be without her.

He didn’t want to go. She said it wouldn’t be that long. Not for him. But for god’s sake, it would be for her.

He didn’t want her to move on. He’d said it years ago, on their porch. He wanted her to be happy, yes, but no other men.

No. He was the only man for her. The only one who _had_ understood, fully and completely, to the very _best_ of his ability and he didn’t trust that the world would bring someone else like that to her again.

And he could _not_ let her settle for someone else. He could not let her experience that pain if, _when_ , they rejected her, when they rejected her gift. The very best part of her, the part that made her Melinda.

And he didn’t want normal. Normal was where you died and you moved on. You let your wife move on. She married again.

But he didn’t want normal.

He wanted Melinda. Always Melinda. Only Melinda.

And he wasn’t sure when he made the decision. He wasn’t sure when it became the _only_ possible one. The _right_ one.

All he knew was Melinda was talking to him on the porch, talking about how she was never sure, before him, that she’d be loved. Not for she was. Not really.

And he knew that he couldn’t _count_ on that happening again. And it might. He’d leave if he could see the future and it did. If she found someone, male or female, who _loved_ her, _one hundred percent,_ for _who_ she was, and _what_ she did, and every little thing that made her _hard_ to love, _hard_ to stay with.

He’d leave. If she found someone like that again, if he knew she would, if he knew that she could move on _properly_ he would leave in an instant.

But he’d seen her, at her lowest moments, when _he_ didn’t get it, or before that was a possibility, before she’d told him. And he had seen her cry her eyes out, her heart aching, her body sore, begging for just _one person_ who’d let her live and carry on as she always had.

And he could not let her return to that life. Of uncertainty. Of not knowing if she’d be loved. As she was. Fully. Unconditionally.

So when there was a chance...when he had a shot…

It was the right decision. No matter what. He made a choice, in that moment, standing over the man’s body.

He would never regret this. Not if it meant staying with Melinda, being with Melinda, being _there_ for her.

He jumped into the man’s body, uncertain of the results, but _fucking_ certain of one thing:

He was going to touch Melinda again. No matter what it took. 

He was going to touch her. 


End file.
